“My dear sir, I know you too well. You need not fear me; I am Mr. Warburton’s body servant.”
“Oh!” Mamma uttered the syllable sharply, then suddenly restrained herself, and coming toward the messenger with cat-like tread, she said, coaxingly: “And who may this Mr. War—war, this master of yours be?”
The man looked from one to the other, and then turned his gaze upon the occupants of the two pallets. “Who are these?” he asked, briefly.
Mamma’s answer came very promptly.
“Only two poor people we knew in another part of the city. They have been turned out by their landlord, poor things, and last night they slept in the street.”
A smile crossed the face of the wily African, and he turned toward Papa.
“Read my master’s note, if you please,” he said. “It was written to you.”
Slowly Papa unfolded the note, and his eyes seemed bursting from their sockets as he read.
Name your price, but keep your whereabouts from the police. If you are called upon to identify me, you do not know me.